First, I have to let you in on a small fact. That is, my definition of the word "bond" is vastly different than the meaning Mister Webster has offered in his dictionary.
Here's my definition of the word "bond":
" Bond, verb - to annoy, to pester, to stalk and to otherwise be a pain in the ass
It begins thirty years ago, give or take a few years when three of my work buddies and myself escaped our daily grind and deemed a few hours of pure musical entertainment was in order. We were all rock and roll fans and we knew that one of the icons of rock would be performing three blocks from our job. Ginger Baker was billed to play at Central Park, more specifically, the Wollman Rink. When we approached the concert area we saw it was mobbed and that they were all lost in the music of the opening act already underway. The electric sounds were clear and pristine unlike larger concert halls where distortion and echos often blemished the finest performances.
When my friends and I passed through the rink entrance, the crowd was on there feet applauding and shouting as Buddy Miles finished his set.
I couldn't wait to see and hear Ginger Baker perform live. He always had a certain look about him when he wailed away on his drums. Some fans say it was a dazed and stoned appearance, music critics wrote it was his look of intensity, but I believe it was a combination of both.
Minutes before he took to the stage, the side door to the band shell marked "Staff Only" opened and a small army of roadies poured out. All of them were wearing faded blue denim jackets extremely similar in color and style to the jacket that I wore as well. When one of them saw this, they mistook me as one the stagehands and shoved me through the door they had just exited.
One burly looking roadie dropped a circle of black cable in my arms and said,
"Stop moping, we got work to do." Then
he walked away.
Well there I was behind stage at the Wollman Rink with an armful of instrument cable. And, oh, did I mention my mouth was gaped open all this time?
My mouth opened further , when Buddy Miles walked up to me and patted me on my denim-covered shoulders saying,
"Thanks dude, good job." he said and my mouth opened further still.
Right then and there I realized I had better get the heck out before someone else mistakes me for a musician and straps a guitar around me. I dropped all the cables, since I didn't know what to do with them anyway and made a bee line for the stage door.
When I walked out into the night filled with shouting teenagers, I approached my friends who were leaning against an exit gate.
One of them said, "Hey, Jim, where did'ya go? Thought we lost ya there for a second."
"I can't explain, dude. It's too wild." I said after finally closing my gaping mouth.
The cheering of the crowd intensified as a yellow pony-tailed figure appeared behind a 12 piece acrylic drum set. After the crowd settled down a bit, Ginger wrapped his snare drum a few times to start the classic song "Sunshine of Your Love." The bass guitar joined in and the crowd went into a frenzy.
After a particularly long and varied drum solo, Ginger's ponytail became undone and he finished hammering away at the drums with his hair whipping all about his sweating face. He looked like a demon on drugs who was keeping a beat. The sight itself moved the crowd to cheer louder than they had cheered all night.
After his set, the audience became ecstatic while I however, with the help of 80% proof liquor was transformed into a 100% proof ass. My eyes were riveted to the stage door exit in the hopes of catching a glimpse of my then favorite drummer. Within a short time or what felt like a short time (remember I was smashed and the whole world seemed like it was moving at 33 1/3 rpm speed) Ginger emerged surrounded by burly bodyguards. Nobody could get near him no matter how much they tried. Except me- for I had a secret plan. Instead of bull-dogging my way through the herd of guards who surrounded him, I climbed atop Gingers black Lincoln Continental which awaited him. My secret plan was to make an aerial attack. Poor Ginger never knew what hit him. I grabbed a chunk of his red curly long locks and yelped like a madman. The dazed and doped drummer yelped, "The birds have got me, the freaking birds have got me . . ."
Once freed from my grasp, the driver hit the gas and the car began to pick up speed with me holding on to the roof for dear life.
My ride lasted a few minutes over bumps and two sharp turns. The next turn was a whopper. I lost my grasp and went flying and landed in a large puddle of mud next to a trash can--without getting a scratch.
When I got up I saw my friends rushing up a hill towards me. I knew they were going to ask why I acted like a jerk by riding on the hood of the car- but I spoke first. "Did you see that nut on Ginger's car? I tried to catch him but he ran off to fast."
"But, Jim," one of them asked "what's that in your hand?"
I looked down to see a small tuft of red curly locks in my fist."
Last I heard, Ginger Baker now sports a baseball cap to hide a bald spot on the top of his head.
But maybe none of this never happened at all . . . just maybe.
